


Let God Turn a Blind Eye

by theblindtorpedo



Category: Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Established Relationship, Fluff, Haddock is Really REALLY in Love, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Introspection, M/M, POV Second Person, Period Typical Attitudes, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Tintin just wants to ride his bike and get kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:34:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25618156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theblindtorpedo/pseuds/theblindtorpedo
Summary: He is an anchor in a storm whipped up by his own hands, but you would never wish to sail out of these waters.
Relationships: Archibald Haddock/Tintin
Comments: 9
Kudos: 48





	Let God Turn a Blind Eye

**Author's Note:**

> roadhog tintin rights
> 
> anyway if you know what song this was influenced by don't come at my throat. this isn't a song fic tho.

The windows are open to let the light breeze stir the stifling summer air and despite the modicum of relief, it is truly, unbearably hot. The heat makes you lethargic. You’ve boasted of sailing across the globe, but it would not be a lie to say your preferred trails were of the arctic variety. After all, it was your familiarity with Icelandic shipping that had snagged you the captaincy on the Aurora for the meteor debacle. The tropics were more bearable with a drink to take the edge off one’s thirst and discomfort, but Marlinspike in summer is hardly a Caribbean island, and you have been attempting to limit the alcohol outside of celebrations. You find an awful lot of things to celebrate these days. When you indulge, you can sense your Belgian companion’s tremor of disappointment, but he will not stop you by force, which you appreciate. You can also sense that the relief you feel at a glass of whisky does still touch the boy. He never liked seeing you as a wretch and forced sobriety after habitual drinking can leave a man as miserable as a drunkard. You are not sure if you will ever fully escape your cups, you have confided this to him, and he accepts this with the caveat that you will only drink together. You will not betray his trust while he has left for the last few days (to meet with his employer), but there is not as much to do without drink and you have been a layabout all day without Tintin around to arouse you in his myriad ways.

So you have been prone on the sofa with a book in your hand for sure, but you have no memory of the pages you have supposedly read today, and the passage of time has been marked only by Nestor’s habitual refilling of the ice cubes in the cold water bath in which there sits a cloth you occasionally mop your brow with. Somewhere your eyes have drifted closed, only to snap to attention when you hear the roar of a motorbike in your driveway, and you rush to the window to curse out any foreign interlopers on your property. In your haste, enhanced by an untoward spike of adrenaline, you knock the tray and bowl crashing to the floor. The water spills and conspires to injure you, sneaking under your feet and sending you flying. Thankfully, you catch yourself on the windowsill and look up to see a far off pair of familiar eyes twinkling at you from where Tintin sits atop a gleaming, new machine. Wherever did Tintin acquire such a beast you do not know, but it does not matter, for you’ll tolerate it for bringing him back to you.

He has been waiting patiently for you when you finally emerge from the chateau’s broad doors. You hope you do not look so desperately eager to see him, there is your theoretical dignity to uphold, but you have little faith in yourself in this regard. Your mother always said you wore your heart on your sleeve. This used to be a source of great distress for you. Until Tintin.

“Care for a ride, Captain?” he says, and your title rings like the siren’s call, except you know the dangers here, you’ve seen them in bullets hurled your way, in the ground hurtling towards you as you free fall, in his beautiful head lying in yet another hospital bed. “Captain,” he calls again, and the vision of those soft lips (you’ve tested their softness, the only place in which you are a fastidious man of science) ensnares you like a net. You do not deserve his love and the way it washes away the pain in your bones and the nightmares in your mind, but you have never been capable of fully resisting your addictive nature. This is one of the better vices.

As you take your time down the stairs (it wouldn’t do to slip again and make a fool of yourself quite so quickly) he has dismounted and leans up against the bike like a centerfold page on one of your more tame magazines. The first few buttons of his shirt are gracelessly undone (it is too hot for sweaters) and the now sinking sun hides behind his head, splitting his golden hair in an enchanting corona. He is an angel. Or something akin to one. You’ve read the Bible, even set foot in a church a couple times, and been on the receiving end of the ship chaplain’s sermons. You know well enough that God’s words, as those men of the cloth preach it, would not call Tintin an angel. They’d condemn him for his actions, for seducing you into acts that should not be performed between two men. You will admit there is an exhilarating element to the taboo of your frenzied caresses when you are in bed, yet, as you stand now with him, in front of the house that is his as much as yours, nothing feels amiss. It is comfortable here, you are happy, and you know, even if the idea is strange and unusual, that you are in love with this boy. You do pray sometimes, pray to God that if he truly disapproves, that just this once he will turn a blind eye.

You never were one for religion.

Tintin beckons, this time wordless, with open arms. You sink into them, face turned to hide embarrassment in the jump of his pulse when he laughs at you, before you press a kiss to the space just under his ear.

“I already called Nestor and told him not to prepare dinner. Let’s go out, you and I,” he whispers against your temple.

“I’d like that very much,” is all you can say in reply. You really have missed him very much.

Sometimes you wish you were still at sea where men did what they liked with each other in relative anonymity, where danger lay in the grandiose patterns of nature not the judgements of society men who take your love for perversion, but as you ride into the embrace of the evening the safety of darkness soothes your anxious heart. You clutch your hands at Tintin’s waist. He is an anchor in a storm whipped up by his own hands, but you would never wish to sail out of these waters. Perhaps that is why he chose you; he knew you were a man who could weather any storm. The thought fills you with pride. Yes, you will try to be the best for him. As if he can read your thoughts he halts the bike and turns his head.

“Before we reach town . . .” he implores and you know what he wants, so you capture his mouth in a full kiss that has him grasping at your cheeks and sighing happily. You encircle your arms around him, hold tight, hold fast.

In that heart searing moment, you know for the rest of your life that Tintin is the only place you will call home. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos greatly appreciated! They are always what motivate me to write more, if you like stuff like this.
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](www.augustinremi.tumblr.com) or [Twitter](www.twitter.com/seccotines).


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